


Enfolded By Your Soft Vermilion Robe

by sssnakelady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angels, Apples, Comfort, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demons, Divinity, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Love, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wings, crowley has a lot of feelings, the color red
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssnakelady/pseuds/sssnakelady
Summary: The story of before was filled with many apples. Of one red-haired angel with sticky fingers - a sticky mouth. A mouth perfect to place endless kisses upon. An angel whose wings glimmered with starlight when evening fell. One whom plucked those stars from his feathers and placed them with gentle care into the sky, one by one.And Aziraphale would applaud each birth of new light in the sky, kissing the freckles over his nose just as easily as his mouth.There was no name yet for this feeling that stirred in his chest.





	Enfolded By Your Soft Vermilion Robe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/gifts).

> Fic and accompanying artwork was done as a gift for Literarion.  
The prompt requests filled were : Hair, cuddling, and divinity. 
> 
> I hope this was everything you were hoping for, Lit! <3 
> 
> The title, as well as the text used at the end of this work are from the poem "A Red Flower" by Claude McKay.

* * *

The first taste in all the world was that of apples. 

It was not, however, the first instance of red. 

Eventually the vermilion stain of his hair would come to be referred to as _ red as apples _ . Humanity would spin more words around the color. _ Red as blood. Red as fire. The red of hell-bent things _. 

But not yet. 

When the world was new - when there was yet no walls, no humans, not even time itself (before he’d even dreamt up the name _ Crowley _), there was no looking at his hair and equating it to anything of sin. 

He would not yet look at his hair and think long on its color. Instead his mind would fill with thoughts of another angel. Of the way fingers would card through his long hair and the angel would sigh about apples. How they grew red with envy of him. 

The story of before was filled with many apples. Of one red-haired angel with sticky fingers - a sticky mouth. A mouth perfect to place endless kisses upon. An angel whose wings glimmered with starlight when evening fell. One whom plucked those stars from his feathers and placed them with gentle care into the sky, one by one. 

And Aziraphale would applaud each birth of new light in the sky, kissing the freckles over his nose just as easily as his mouth. 

There was no name yet for this feeling that stirred in his chest. 

One day, far in the future, this star child would come to understand it and the nature of what they’d been building together beneath that apple tree. 

  


**A Cottage in South Downs, 2020**

There are some secrets that refuse to be contained. 

No matter how hard one keeps their pieces drawn tight, some secrets are like sand and spill between every crack that forms. 

Crowley is never sure where each new crack in his foundation forms, but he can feel more and more of him spilling out here. 

_ Do you remember? _

Aziraphale whispers these words into his ear, curls blunt fingers tight into Crowley’s shirt over his chest, and Crowley can do nothing more than whimper. 

Before them is a tree. Crowley has gripped tight onto one of its branches and he swears he can hear it breaking apart with him beneath the force of his hand. One day in the very near future it will sprout apples - here in this garden of his own making. Tucked behind a small cottage they’ve settled their lives into. 

_ How long? _He’s desperate to ask. How long has Aziraphale known this secret, this connection between them that is older than even the concept of time? How long has Aziraphale been playing the fool? 

The only thing that passes his mouth instead is a croaked out, “_ Yes _.” Nothing intelligible at all. He’s lost the ability to do anything beyond pressing in closer to the angel tucked against his back, slowly crushing him into the wide trunk of the tree. 

Crowley knows it won’t do to not get his wits about him. For all the debauchery they get up to within the walls of their new home, he’s tried to keep this garden a sacred place. Desperate for something of _ before _, when he thinks to torture himself with memories of a way they’ll never be again. A way he, himself, can never be again. 

Aziraphale’s fingers thread into his hair, curl through the waved locks where he’s been growing it longer. Thought escapes his mind as surely as the rush of air from his mouth and he reclines his head back onto the angel’s shoulder. There is no denying the wave of pure nostalgia that leaves his every nerve ending tingling. It’s such an obscenely human emotion, but with it those memories come back of a simpler time. 

A time they share and Crowley pretends betrayal in those sick storm eyes of his even while his mouth searches for a kiss. 

“I’d hoped that you did.” Aziraphale sighs against his lips, eliciting a shiver in response that runs clean through Crowley. 

Down to his ankles, making them rattle. He is suddenly thankful for his hold on the tree. 

There is always something about these moments that feels like _ allowance _. Each new kiss, each new touch or taste - every way they can love like they once had before, but also only as they can now. Crowley chases this kiss and tries not to quake apart under all the ways he feels undeserving. 

“Always have - known. Don’t forget when you Fall. Couldn’t ever forget - not you.” Crowley mumbles into the soft touch of mouth on mouth. 

Aziraphale’s fingers find his own then, thread between every space there until they fit tight. An anchor for the two of them to this moment as much as in this space and Crowley fears he just might lose the strength in his legs entirely. It is only by sheer force of stubborn pride that he remains upright and pressed into the angel surrounding him. 

“What.. what do you remember?” Crowley asks, closing his eyes and swallowing down uncertainties. 

_ How much of us is there? How many cracks will I need to hastily tape shut so that you can’t see the dregs of me slipping through? _

Aziraphale smiles against his mouth and Crowley makes certain to watch the play of that expression along the rest of the angel’s face. Lighting up those seawater eyes. 

“I remember an angel who created the stars. Who sat with me in the garden, shared apples with me. I remember an angel whom I loved before I even understood what it all meant. I remember this…” 

Aziraphale’s fingers stroke through his hair, bury deep into the silk of it and Crowley makes a sound in the wake of it all that he can never claim to be proud of. It is the sound of a needy thing. A desperate creature that presses back into the body behind him and clings tight to the fingers woven between his own. 

“So red the apples change color in envy of it.” Aziraphale murmurs, spreading kisses over Crowley’s cheeks - his forehead and nose. 

Every brush of those lips on his skin is a love song, but it’s those fingers in his hair that is pure poetry. Crowley knows he could while away millennia just sitting close and letting Aziraphale play with his hair. He’ll bask too in these words he hasn’t heard in even longer. There is something that feels like being reborn in hearing them again. 

“Funny thing to think I was something to be _ envious _of once. Now the lot of them have all gone rebellious. Green, pink, yellow.” Crowley mutters, attempting to hide the greater sweep of emotion beneath sarcasm. 

But words can’t hide the fresh gathering of tears at the corners of his eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate to kiss each and every one away with nothing more than a hum of acknowledgement to his rather classic case of deflection. This has never stopped Crowley from continuing on down such a path anyway. 

“You keep pulling like that and I’ll ruin the whole moment, angel.” He needles, and as expected Aziraphale does precisely that. 

The pressure is just enough to make him hiss, anchoring his head back so each swallow is visible along the column of his throat. A gasp damning in the way it works his adam’s apple down when Aziraphale presses in closer. Every inch of his back is settled against that warmth and there is no escaping the gentle stir of interest. 

These bodies of theirs prove ever so human during the more intimate moments they can now share. 

In the Garden, Crowley can’t recall ever having desires like these. The need for teeth, for tongues, for the sheer delight of _ feasting _ on one another not unlike the delight one finds when first biting into a red-ripe apple. As if their thoughts have become perfectly aligned, Aziraphale sets his teeth to the outer shell of an ear and Crowley feels himself writhe under the sheer want that is ever consuming him. 

“Do you mind here, darling?” Aziraphale asks, his voice nothing above a whisper. 

Crowley inhales - sharp, unneeded, just more ways he’s become something other than his initial making. He nods, not trusting his voice, fingers convulsing around the slim branch he’s clutched onto like a lifeline. A leg slides between his own, rubs sure and perfect through the too tight clutch of his jeans. 

Aziraphale has become an expert at unmaking him like this. 

From the first - back in his flat, the two of them desperate in their believed last hours - Aziraphale has been a rapt study of Crowley’s worry-worn body. There in the way the angel’s knee works between his legs in gentle coaxing and Crowley is whip ready, flushed and aching in a matter of seconds. He’d claim it was just the moment, the memories dancing behind his eyelids of a time long before this, but that would be a lie. It is always like this. Every atom of his being ready to race across the universe at Aziraphale’s beck and call. 

Ready to rearrange himself into whatever this angel desires. 

Aziraphale croons into the back of his neck as Crowley leans his forehead to the tree, hips snapping in desperate need for a little more friction. Murmurs of - _ So lovely, so good, _ and _ let’s get those clothes off you, my dear. _

He should feel more embarrassed by this sort of indecency. Out here, in the garden, in plain sight, and yet Crowley shucks his pants down to his ankles without an ounce of good form. There is the taste of a miracle in the air and he has no idea anymore which of them is responsible. It sets him at ease but does nothing to still the sudden pattering of a heart gone wild with want. 

It isn’t until Aziraphale untagles their hands, their fingers, and sets those palms to his heated skin that he is aware of his own trembling. Aziraphale digs those fingers into his hips, grounds him there with a touch, and Crowley locks his knees to stay upright. He stares blurry eyed up at this witness of a tree and wonders if he’s only imagining the extra patches of green leaves on it’s branches. 

“Turn around, won’t you, Crowley? I want to watch you.” Aziraphale requests and there is something in that tone that tells Crowley - _ I am always watching you. My eyes are always on you, taking you in, eating you up as surely as my mouth will. _

Crowley nods more than is necessary and forces himself to move on his emotion brittle legs. It’s a mistake, being face to face with the other, because he sees a million secrets reflected in too blue eyes. Aziraphale catches him at the first struggle for balance and lifts him with far too much ease. Crowley becomes a tangle of limbs around the other then, curled around the angel like a snake, like a creature of possession. 

And yet he knows it is Aziraphale who will be the one to eat him alive in the end. 

Their mouths meet in a kiss - tongue and teeth and nothing of eloquence because they don’t need it for this raw want that passes between them. It is in moments like this that Crowley knows he is not alone in this desperate love. 

His throat works around a cry, unleashes its full intent as a moan when Aziraphale is just as quickly rid of his trousers and sinking into him with the aid of more miracles. The way his angel whimpers at the first feel of this, as he bites at his own lower lip, has Crowley wishing there was never a moment in time they couldn’t be just like this.

They won’t last long. Aziraphale refuses to do more than rock deep and sure into him, just the way Crowley loves it. Every crevice of himself filled up with all of this angel, even down to the red rush of blood in his veins. He can feel the tree against his back, leaving more of red lashed into his skin. It will swell around the scratches, angry and violent, where Crowley will miracle them to stay for as long as he dares. Just one more reminder of what is his to keep. 

“Let - let them out. Darling, Crowley, _ please _.” Aziraphale’s voice is strained with effort, their bodies moving greedy together. 

Crowley dares a glance down, whimpers again at the bare request in those eyes watching him back. How can he say no? How can he deny his angel a thing? Even if he hates them. Hates the tar black of them. Of these wings that will never know the feel of stars again. 

For Aziraphale he will live beside hated things. 

The smell of scorched matter fills the air. Mixes with the heady scent of dirt and living things. Shadow black envelops them, droops heavy at his sides, and Crowley also hates the way Aziraphale lights up at the sight of them. Words threaten to seep through those cracks. 

_ Don’t look at them. Don’t enjoy what they’ve become. What I’ve become. These voids. These black holes. There’s nothing worthy in them anymore. _

“Beautiful. Oh, you’re so radiant, my love.” Aziraphale sighs - the sigh of one caught up in a marvelous wonder. 

Crowley’s heart catches in his throat, patters there out of control and steals away all his words. Leaves him a mess vocalized only in a sobbing moan. His fingers scramble at Aziraphale’s shoulders, dig into those points of immense warmth. Aziraphale lets loose his wings as though he can hear Crowley’s silent plea as surely as if the demon is screaming it. 

Aziraphale always smells of lush things. Of nectar rich flowers, hints of amber colored honey, of mulled spices. Like a warm cup of tea Crowley can curl up in a rinse off all his doubts - all his fears and worries. It is only ever when they are together that Crowley knows he feels a little more at ease with himself. 

He doesn’t hesitate to bury his fingers into the downy soft white of those wings. His own flare up, fan out to give away so much of himself. Every way Aziraphale lights him up from the inside out. There’s just too much here, between them, to ever keep it all contained. 

“Fuck. I - Love you. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. Since - since forever. Aziraphale, I -” His words choke out of him, caught around quaking limbs and fat tears. 

“I know, darling. It’s alright, I have you. I’m here. I’ll always be right here where you can find me.” Aziraphale whispers a promise into the space between their mouths as Crowley tries to kiss him and sob at the same time. 

Crowley knows he is shaking. Rattling apart from every place he’s ever broken himself apart and tried to staple himself back together. Every place he’s known since the beginning only Aziraphale fits. His angel breaks him apart here as easily as an egg meant for a benedict. 

And then fills in every missing part - every soul torn ache - with love. 

“You can let go, Crowley. I’ve got a hold of you, love. Let me see you. _ All of you _, it’s alright.” 

Before the Garden, before the Sun, there had once only been darkness. Most think angels were created after. This is only half true, Crowley knows, because he was there. There in matter and consciousness, trapped in endless darkness.

When she had created _ light _ he remembers it had been blinding. It had burned his eyes into painful pits, leaving splotches of color - blurred dots in his vision. It was the first he’d ever seen of red. Red spheres, a red and burning sun. Later he would ask this corporeal form of his be reminiscent of that first rush of color. She would paint his hair a startling red, the color his to keep. 

As climax rattles through his body, maybe down even into his bones with the power of it, those photoreceptors flare with dots of light. He cries out his love into honey sweet skin and quakes apart, knowing Aziraphale won’t let him fall again. 

When their bodies are well spent, lazy along the grass and turned over dirt beneath them, Crowley opens his eyes in a flash when something solid thunks against his chest. Long fingers pluck up the apple, turn it over into his palm. It is full, perfectly ripe, and he knows without a doubt it will be sickly sweet on the tongue. 

He peers up at the tree over them, it’s branches reaching up into the darkening sky. It’s grown with a sort of exuberance in the span of time he and Aziraphale have been _ fraternizing _beneath it. Lush green, apples twinkling at him like a dozen catty winks. He scowls at the lot of it, a short shout escaping him as Aziraphale leans over and takes a bite from the fruit in his hand. 

“Now who did that, I wonder?” Crowley badgers, attempting to keep his agitation firmly in place. It’s a useless endeavor. 

Aziraphale laughs at him, full of mirth around a full mouth. 

“You did, my dear.” 

Crowley has to blink at this. What a lie. Surely he’d recall tossing off such a pointless miracle. _ Never _ does he use miracles to make something grow when threatening works just as readily. Yet, as he glances back up at the tree, ignoring the way grass clings to his skin, he has the sinking suspicion that Aziraphale just might be telling the truth. 

“Did you know -” Aziraphale starts, distracting Crowley from the tree - from the apple - from frivolous miracles with nothing more than a lazy scrawl of a finger over his chest. 

“- you’re still so full of starlight when you’re happy.” 

Crowley follows those fingers, watches as they bury into ink ruined feathers. He can see them now, nestled there and shining ever so slightly. Points of red light blinking to life one by one. 

The apple drops forgotten to the ground, sticky fingers covering a tear soaked face, and Aziraphale holds him as the last bits of himself burst free. 

They’ll fill their lives with red from here. Apples, of course, but roses too. Aziraphale will gather up heaps of cranberries at holiday time, make them into jams and juice. They’ll collect fallen leaves in just the right hue. Pictures of Mars will make a home for themselves on the walls. Poems of color will also litter their spaces and Crowley will laugh himself to wheezing when Aziraphale turns ripe red with anger at the realization Crowley has cut them straight from a book (never Aziraphale’s own). 

When Crowley finally slides a ring onto Aziraphale’s left hand it will be inset with red cinnabar. 

Aziraphale will insist on making love in the dark that night, Crowley’s wings spread wide so the room is cast in glimmering scarlet stars. 

  * \- 

_ Your lips betray the secret of your soul, _

_ The dark delicious essence that is you, _

_ A mystery of life, the flaming goal _

_ I seek through mazy pathways strange and new. _

_ Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower, _

_ Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe. _  
  



End file.
